this unexpected summer of the heart
by Lee Whimsy
Summary: One drowsy August evening, a dwarven king wanders into the Shire and knocks on a familiar green door. "I knew you for a few bleak months and thirty years later I wake up wishing that you were beside me. I am surrounded by my kin and kingdom, but even in Erebor I am lonely for you." Thorin/Bilbo.
1. jasmine and blackcurrant scones

**this unexpected summer of the heart**

part i**  
**

**A/N: **I promised giant-pancakes that I'd write fluffy Shire fic. It took longer than it should have.

**Disclaimer**: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest.

* * *

The front door was bright with fresh paint, and Bilbo noticed a smear of green on his hand when he shooed the children out of doors.

"Look after the baby, Frodo!" he shouted after them, but Frodo was already out the gate and halfway down the road, splashing through puddles, hot in pursuit of Mr. Gamgee's oldest boy with young Pearl Took tumbling along behind him. "And get back here in time for supper!"

No answer. He sighed and wiped his hand on a dishrag, letting the door stand open. Bag End could do with an airing out, and the storm clouds had drifted away hours ago, tugged along by a warm summer breeze. Good riddance to rain and children both, Bilbo thought. The party was in two days, and he had more than enough to keep him busy without Frodo and his friends raiding the pantry and tracking mud all over the floor.

He spent the afternoon baking scones—which would have been simple enough, if he hadn't eaten so many blackcurrants from the mixing bowl that he had to go to market and buy more. Then there was the dusting to be done, and the floors washed, and Frodo's clothes mended, because the silly boy had gotten himself tangled up in a gorse bush on one of his rambles, and torn his best cotton shirt all to ribbons. It was all comfortably familiar, and he hummed while he worked, the tune of an Elvish song that he'd heard in Rivendell so very long ago.

Late afternoon drowsed on to evening. When Frodo slipped into the kitchen at last, he brought the smell of damp earth and jasmine with him.

"Missus Bell gave me some flowers from the garden," he said, standing on tip-toe and peering up at the tray of scones that Bilbo had just taken out of the oven. "Because Hamson pushed me into a ditch. Can I have a scone?"

"If you want," Bilbo said. "But we're having roast pork and apples for supper, with almond pudding for afters."

"Um. I guess I'll save the scones for later."

"Sensible lad. Get a vase and some water for those flowers—yes, just like that. Where do you think we should put them?"

"On the windowsill," Frodo said, after some deliberation. "That way the breeze will make the house smell nice."

"So it will. Now, go and wash up, and then you can help set the table."

It was nice, having a second pair of hands in the kitchen, and Frodo was a patient child: he didn't mind peeling apples, or endlessly stirring a pot of soup. Tonight, Bilbo gave him a battered copy of his grandmother's almond pudding recipe and set him loose on cupboards, trying not to smile as Frodo carefully checked and re-checked every line of the instructions, small brow furrowed with concentration.

The meal was excellent, as meals always were at Bag End, but the pudding was the most excellent of all, and not just because of the way Frodo beamed when Bilbo told him so. They were just drying the last of the dishes when the doorbell rang. Frodo dropped his dishrag and raced for the door, feet sliding across the polished floors. "I'll get it!" he shouted.

Probably young Hamson Gamgee again. His visits were often coincidentally close to mealtimes, but Bilbo pretended not to notice. In fact, he usually sent Hamson home with a loaf of bread or a freshly baked pie to share with his brother and sisters, on the pretense of _clearing out his pantry_ or similar nonsense. The Gamgees had four children to feed, after all, and Bilbo was a bachelor with more money than he would ever have reason to spend.

From his place by the sink, Bilbo heard the sound of the door opening, and then an astonished shout. "Uncle!" Frodo cried. "There's an army of dwarves at the door!"

Bilbo made a small noise of satisfaction as he returned the last of the dishes to its rightful place. Last week it had been a troop of elves, and the week before that Frodo had brought home a pair of talking ladybugs. Doubtless he got his imagination from the Brandybuck side of the family.

"Well, tell them they missed supper," he said. "But they're welcome to stop in for scones, if they want any."

Frodo relayed the message, and Bilbo heard a murmur of voices at the door, too deep to be the Gamgee children. Curiosity piqued, he stepped out into the hallway. "Who is it, then?"

"I told you," Frodo said, his voice soft with wonder. "It's dwarves."

The door had been thrown wide open. On the doorstep stood Thorin Oakenshield. There was a little more gray in his hair than Bilbo remembered, and the lines in his face were deeper, but other than that he'd hardly changed at all.

"At your service, Mr. Baggins," he said.

Bilbo didn't faint. Not this time. He had been dreaming of this moment for more than thirty years, but this was better than he'd ever dared to hope, because Fili and Kili were standing behind their uncle, and Bofur was leaning against the gate, chatting with a wide-eyed Hamson Gamgee and being gawked at by the neighbors. It was all too good to be true.

"Bilbo Baggins, entirely at yours," he said, just in case he wasn't hallucinating, and stepped aside to let them in.


	2. king under the mountain

**this unexpected summer of the heart**

part ii**  
**

**A/N: **I haven't had a chance to reply to all the wonderful people who commented on the last chapter. I promise that I will soon. I know I've said it before, but I can't get over how kind and enthusiastic our corner of fandom is, and every one of your reviews means the world to me.

**Disclaimer**: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest.

* * *

Thorin was ever the son of Thráin and grandson of Thrór, a dutiful prince and a dutiful king. But maybe it was his curse to never be entirely whole; maybe there was some fault in his head or his heart that made him long for things out of reach. As a child he dreamed of the wilderness beyond Erebor, the freedom of strange folk and foreign lands. Such childish fancy taunted him through all the long years of his exile, when hatred burned though his veins and his soul was sick with the knowledge that a monster slumbered in Erebor.

Now he was home at last, the dragon dead and his people growing mightier by the day. All the wildest hopes of his father and grandfather had been realized. Thorin was a king, and wanted for nothing but his burglar—his small, insignificant hobbit, the dearest treasure of his heart.

In the first years after the battle, other matters occupied his time. Erebor was a ruin of skeletons and broken stone, but he dragged it back to something of its former glory, and did the work of generations in a few short decades. His favorite tutor had always said that there was nothing so broken that a dwarf could not fix it.

"Prince Thorin, one day we will have it in us to rebuild Arda Marred," he would say. "In the meantime, you can at least mend your grandmother's helmet before she finds it was you who stole it."

Thorin had repaired the helmet, and snuck it back into the armory before anyone else noticed it was gone. He repaired Erebor, too. That is how history will remember him.

_The year 2941 of the Third Age. The dragon Smaug killed, and a great battle fought before the gates of Erebor. Thorin II claims his grandfather's throne, and the kingdom under the Mountain is renewed._

The lords of Durin's line have never been scribes, and Thorin himself has no patience for records or writing. He leaves nonsense like that to Ori. But if he were to put ink to parchment, his own account would read like this.

_2941. Home. Father and Grandfather are avenged. What's left of my family will live in peace. They say that I will live, too. It doesn't feel that way. _

_Bilbo left. _

_I never told him that I—_

* * *

In the end, it was an offhand comment that brought Thorin to the Shire.

Dís ruled the Blue Mountains in Thorin's name, and their messengers wore smooth the roads between Erebor and Ered Luin. It became a familiar route, if not an easy one, and Thorin asked only his fiercest, sturdiest couriers to attempt it. One such dwarf, an old campaigner of Dain's, made the journey more than a dozen times before he returned with wedding braids in his hair.

"Who is she?" his brothers demanded. "What of her family? Why did she not come home with you to the Mountain?"

Never known for their humility, dwarves bragged of their families even more than treasure or fine craftsmanship, and the campaigner's shyness was strange. His blush, visible even through his bushy sideburns, was even stranger.

Speculation ran rife throughout Erebor. Thorin only learned the truth of the matter from Dwalin, who had been widowed in battle many years ago. His wife had been one of the burned dwarves of Azanulbizar, and he was a gruff but sympathetic listener when it came to matters of the heart.

"Well, how would he explain it?" Dwalin asked rhetorically. "The laddie went and married a Tuckborough girl. From the Shire," he added, when it became clear that Thorin had no notion what he was talking about.

"I hadn't realized any dwarven families lived in the Shire," Thorin said, frowning.

"They don't."

Understanding came sudden and painful. Jealousy followed hard behind, but it wouldn't do to show disfavor to a loyal subject. He spoke of the matter to no one but his sister, and in her return letter she promised to find the dwarf a place in her own guard. More than three decades passed before Thorin saw him again.

He came home at last in the dark days of autumn. He was alone, his shoulders slumped, his eyes red-rimmed and downcast. This time, his brothers asked no questions.

"I thought we had time," he said. "She was always—she was so strong. And her great-grandfather lived to be 130, and I thought—"

He shook his head and fell silent.

Thorin, not known as the most sympathetic of kings, heard none of this. But Dwalin did. It was Dwalin who took the dwarf aside and heard the rest of his sad little story. It was Dwalin, of all the old Company, who first learned that hobbits did not live far beyond one hundred years of age. It was Dwalin, never patient with numbers or calculations, who realized that Bilbo, if he was still alive, would be ninety years old.

It was Dwalin who broke the news to Thorin.

At first, Thorin refused to believe it. Surely there had been some mistake. Bilbo Baggins was strong and bold and fearless. It was impossible to imagine him frail with old age, worn down to fragile bones and uncertain breaths; no heart so strong could fail so soon. Thorin demanded to speak to the widower himself, but what he heard was little comfort.

Yes, of course he knew of Bilbo Baggins—he was a household name in the Shire, and honored among the dwarves. No, he had never met him. Tuckborough was a long way from Hobbiton, and besides, King Thorin had ordered that Master Baggins be left in peace. No, he hadn't heard anything of his death, but he'd cared little for local gossip when his wife was on her deathbed.

Thorin dismissed him after that, barely civil.

And that spring, as soon as the roads were passable, he left for Hobbiton.


	3. back across the map

**this unexpected summer of the heart**

part iii

**A/N**: I said on tumblr that this would probably be a five part story. I lied. Apparently I can't write Hobbit fic without Fili and Kili sticking their noses in.

**Disclaimer**: Tolkien created most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest.

* * *

It was a hard winter. Thorin kept to himself in the days after his unwelcome revelation, but he couldn't escape his duties entirely. If his sharp-eyed courtiers noticed his misery, they said nothing, but his nephews were just as observant and not nearly so polite; Kili teased the story out of Dwalin within a week, and soon Thorin found himself under siege.

As wandering children, homeless and friendless but for their mother and uncle, his nephews had learned how to charm strangers, to cajole unfriendly men into offering them food or shelter. Even in those days Thorin had been helpless to refuse them. Now, Kili commanded Erebor's armies and Fili stood at Thorin's right hand, his heir and most powerful lord. To their credit, they rarely pressed their advantage.

When they did, Thorin lost.

"We're going with you, of course," Kili said one cold December morning. They were standing on the ramparts overlooking the Front Gate, the River Running frozen beneath them, the distant banners of Dale tugging and snapping in the wind.

"Don't be an idiot." Thorin cuffed Kili on the head, none too gently. He still wore his hair unbound, with only a few dark braids framing his face. It scandalized the more traditional dwarves who came to Erebor, and lessened his appeal among his unwed peers; Kili had fought and killed to preserve Thorin's reputation, but he was profoundly unconcerned with his own.

"I mean it, uncle."

"So do I. You can't shirk your duty for a lark across the mountains."

Kili didn't need to say it, but that had never stopped him. "Like you?"

"You're my heirs. We can't all go and get ourselves killed."

Kili bit at his lower lip, drumming his fingers fast and uneven against the stone battlements. "Uncle—"

"No."

"There's something you should know."

"No," Thorin said again, because he had the unpleasant suspicion that he knew what Kili wanted to talk about. It hadn't escaped his notice that neither of his nephews had married, or indeed formed any noticeable attachments at all, and not for lack of offers.

Kili, unsurprisingly, ignored him.

"Fili's going to abdicate. He doesn't want the throne and neither do I. Give Dain the regency, and we can all go west together."

"Absolutely _not_," Thorin snapped._ " _How dare you—"

"In a century or two it won't matter," Kili said, ruthlessly. "We'll all be dead, and no children after us. Dain's son is a brave lad, and he's your namesake, and he'll be a better king than my brother."

Thorin wanted so badly to be angry. But it was going to be a hard winter, and something in his chest ached—an old war wound, no doubt. Was Bilbo looking out his own window? Was he tracing frost on the glass, or was he buried deep in some frozen scrap of land?

Kili was right. Thorin would take no wife, and he would sire no children. His nephews would follow him in this, as they had all their lives; as they had followed him to Erebor and to battle and to victory.

No longer would Erebor pass from father to son, line unbroken. Perhaps that was not so great a tragedy after all.

"Come along, then," he said at last. "You can write the letter to your cousin."

Kili grinned, and together they came in out of the cold.

* * *

The snowmelts flooded the River Running, and at last the world softened with the promise of spring. Flowers grew up in the land that had once been the Desolation, and soon after Thorin left Erebor without fuss or fanfare. He gave no public explanation, but his lords and subjects knew. So too did Dain, called from the Iron Hills to serve as regent, and the men of Dale and Esgaroth, whose fathers and mothers had told them stories of Thorin Oakenshield and his Company, and of the halfling who had traveled with them.

This time, Thorin wanted no escort, and he said so. As he expected, his nephews cheerfully ignored him. He had never doubted their love for him, even if there was no room in their hearts for his kingdom.

Bofur travelled with them; of all the Company he had known Bilbo the best. Dwalin came, too, and half a dozen of Kili's best soldiers. Thorin bore the defiance without grace or gratitude, and if the roads west were more dangerous than he expected—if goblins still lurked in the mountains, if the weather was foul and miserable, if in the end he needed his brothers in arms—he said nothing of it.

So they traced their dusty footsteps back across the map, and came at last to Bree, where Thorin had first met Gandalf so many long years ago. Their clothes were travel-stained but their coin was good, and the local innkeeper made them welcome: an absentminded young man who flustered easily and had no notion that he was entertaining royalty.

"Dwarven blacksmiths are highly respected," he said. "And in shorter supply than they once were, though I've no notion why. Finding work won't be any trouble. Why, I dare say you could set up a forge of your own in a few years, if you kept at it!"

Dwalin made an ugly noise in the back of his throat, but Thorin only nodded and gave his thanks. He was not an exile any more, and his king's pride was not so easily wounded as that—not by a kindly fool who wouldn't know any better if the heir of Númenor was sitting at the bar, or if Durin himself had taken a room at his inn.

"Our thanks," he said, and dragged Kili and Fili upstairs to the room they would share, recognizing all too well the looks on their faces.

"We worked in Bree for ten years," Kili burst out as soon as Thorin shut the door. "Ten years, and we went hungry in the winters, and sent every penny back to you and mother. And Master Barliman says—he says—oh, I've never heard anything so absurd in my life!"

He flopped onto one of the beds, helpless with laughter. Fili was more composed, but even his shoulders were shaking with silent mirth, and Thorin's mouth curved into a small, indulgent smile.

Time was not always the enemy; it healed and hurt in equal measure. But Thorin had not crossed a continent to linger in Bree, and he left before dawn the next morning, his nephews and Bofur trailing in his wake. Dwalin and the soldiers would remain at the inn, at least for the time being.

"To keep from scaring the locals," Dwalin said with a toothy grin. "Wouldn't do to give them a turn, poor soft things. We'll be waiting when you come back, sire."

_Whenever that might be_, he didn't add. Two days or two months, it made no difference, and Dwalin silently wished for the second.

Thorin, restless and impatient, drove their little group hard, but the Shire was a forgiving country. They traveled though shady valleys and sprawling green forests, and Bofur picked bouquets of scrappy wildflowers from ditches as they walked, handing them to housewives and giggling children with flourishing bows. The days were bright, the nights soft and sultry—even the rainstorm that met them on the outskirts of Eastfarthing tried its best to be inoffensive—but Thorin's temper worsened as the days dragged on, and he fell to silent brooding, ignoring the stares and murmurs that dogged their steps. He could have asked any one of those gossipy, disapproving folk about Bilbo Baggins, but somehow he couldn't stand the thought.

_Old Mr. Baggins? Why, he died years ago_, they might say, and what would he do then?

It was a sweet summer evening when they crossed into Hobbiton. "Wouldn't you know it," Fili said. "We're being followed."

Kili turned to look and saw a tiny Hobbit boy clambering over the fence that bordered the road, his curly blond hair tangled and his eyes wide with curiosity. "Aren't you afraid that we'll eat you?" Kili asked, just for the sake of stirring up trouble. "Or steal you away to work in a forge? That's what your mama thinks, no doubt."

The boy shook his head. "You're Mr. Baggins' dwarves," he called back, albeit from a safe distance. "You wouldn't eat anyone."

He paused, then added thoughtfully: "Do you take apprentices? Only if I ran off and you told Ma that you'd kidnapped me, then I wouldn't be in trouble when I came home. And I could be a blacksmith, instead of a gardener."

Thorin, ahead of them, had stopped dead.

Kili cleared his throat several times before he could speak, and even so his voice was unsteady. "You know Bilbo Baggins, then?"

"Sure I do," the boy said. "Everyone does, don't they? He's rich as a king and curses in four different languages and a long time ago he went off on an adventure. Everybody says adventures don't bring anything but trouble, so I guess that's you."

It took a surprisingly long time for Kili to remember how to breathe.

"That's us," he managed at last. "The very best kind of trouble."

"I knew it," the boy said, triumphantly, and when they asked him for directions he led them straight up the road to a familiar green door.

Thorin took a ragged breath and knocked.

He had prepared a grand speech. He had all sorts of fine words at hand, practiced endlessly through the long weeks of their journey. But he had not planned for the solemn little boy who appeared at the door, or for the way his heart leapt when Bilbo's familiar voice echoed through the entryway.

Or for the sight of his thief, impossibly unchanged, standing before him at last.

"At your service, Mr. Baggins," he said.

If Bilbo said something in reply, Thorin didn't hear it. No sooner had he stepped over the threshold than Thorin caught him up and held him tight, arms wrapping around his shoulders with bruising affection.

They did not kiss, but love burned away the empty air between them.


	4. the boy from the brandywine

**this unexpected summer of the heart**

part iv**  
**

**A/N: **Another baby chapter. The next one should be out later tonight, if that helps make up for it?

**Disclaimer**: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest.

* * *

Frodo had been an orphan for five months.

His parents drowned on a soft spring morning, but at first he didn't understand what that meant. None of his aunts or uncles told him anything, as if saying _they're dead_ would make it true. In the end, it was Bilbo who told Frodo that his mama and da were gone and weren't coming back. He had seen too many corpses to be afraid of the words that described them.

After the funeral, Frodo lived in Buckland with his mother's family, and everyone knew he would be happy there. The Brandybucks were rich and powerful, by hobbit standards, and more than a little odd, but they were kindly folk, and they took Frodo into their midst without question. After all, what was one more little face among dozens of siblings and cousins, nieces and nephews?

But Frodo ran away once or twice a month, a small solemn boy drifting barefoot across the Shire, and somehow he always ended up at his uncle's door. Bilbo never turned him away. The first time it happened, a small army of Brandybucks led by Frodo's terrifying Aunt Menegilda stormed Hobbiton to demand his immediate return. The second and third times, Menegilda sent Bilbo a strongly-worded letter on very expensive stationary. After that, the Brandybucks left them alone.

By Midsummer's Day there was a new quilt in the spare bedroom at Bag End, and Bilbo had outfitted his young cousin with a walking stick and a sturdy little rucksack. By late July, Frodo spent more time at Bag End than Brandy Hall, and Bilbo twice met with Old Rory Brandybuck to talk about the possibility of adoption.

"Impossible," Rory said the first time. "My Gilda dotes on the lad, and he's far more like Primula than that boring oaf she married."

The second time, he grunted and said "Well, he does seem rather fond of you, doesn't he? Might as well let him stay in Hobbiton until harvest season, at least."

Frodo missed his parents. He missed the colors of his mother's favorite dress and the wooden toys that his father used to carve. He missed their little hobbit hole on the edge of the Brandywine River. But Uncle Bilbo told him tales of dwarves and elves and great battles, and he didn't believe in bedtimes, and he made sweeter blackcurrant scones than anyone else in the Shire.

So life was good that summer, or at least as good as an orphaned child and a retired burglar had any reason to expect.

Then an army of dwarves appeared on Bilbo's doorstep, and things got even better.

* * *

All respectable folk had long since gone to bed, but the windows of Bag End were open, light and laughter spilling out into the night. If any of Bilbo's nosy neighbors had sneaked into the garden and peered into over the hedges, they would have been scandalized. Dwarves, for shame! Bilbo Baggins was known for keeping strange and disreputable company, but dwarves were the absolute limit.

Fortunately, the only person who would have dared to spy on Bilbo Baggins had been sent home to his mother hours ago, along with a large bowl of almond pudding and strict orders to share it with his sisters and brother. Hamson obeyed, but he made Frodo swear a solemn oath not to run away on an adventure without telling the Gamgees first.

Frodo promised. But there were no adventures that night. The dwarves hadn't travelled all the way from Erebor just to vanish again, and instead they settled in for supper, though Bilbo complained halfheartedly that he'd just finished putting the dishes away. In the midst of all the commotion—greetings and warm embraces, the dwarves shucking their travelling gear and leaving it lying about the house, everyone wandering in and out of the pantry at will—Frodo stole five scones before anyone noticed. It was the dwarf in the hat who spotted him, but he only winked and said nothing, and Frodo liked him instantly.

"Which one are you?" Frodo asked. "No, wait—I can guess. Uncle tells me the stories all the time."

"Does he?" the dwarf said. "Guess away, then."

Frodo frowned in concentration, ticking names off on his fingers. There was Thorin, the king, the one who had introduced himself at the door and hadn't taken his eyes off of Bilbo since. Then there were the two princes, Fili and Kili. Frodo couldn't remember which was which, but he thought Fili might be the one with the scars on his face. He recited the rest of the familiar names, sing-song. "Dwalin and Balin and Bifur and Bofur and—oh! You're Bofur."

The dwarf grinned. "Right you are. Your uncle really does talk about us, then?"

Frodo nodded. "My favorite story is the one with the trolls. But the dragon stories are good, too. Did you fight the dragon?"

"I saw the dragon, at least," said Bofur. "Twice. From a not inconsiderable distance."

"Did he really breathe fire?"

"Quite a lot, rude creature that he was."

"You're funny," Frodo said, smiling up at him. "And I like your hat."

The hours passed. Bilbo might not have believed in bedtimes, but Frodo was a young hobbit; even on long summer nights, when bullfrogs croaked along the Bywater and fireflies floated over the gardens, he was sound asleep before midnight. Dwarves, however, were a special occasion, so Frodo was still awake in the early hours of the morning, sitting on the floor by the fireplace, wrapped up in the soft cotton of his favorite quilt.

He didn't understand all of the conversation, but he liked the cadence of it. He liked to hear his uncle talking and laughing. He liked the dwarves and their strange accents.

Especially the one with the hat.


	5. old winyard 1296

**this unexpected summer of the heart**

part v

A/N: Um. This turned into three thousand words of gratuitous cuddling and storytelling, now with fifty percent more baby Frodo.

Disclaimer: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest. No wargs were harmed in the making of this chapter, much to Kili's disappointment.

* * *

It was three o'clock in the morning, and Bilbo was justifiably worried about the state of his wine cellar.

Hobbits rarely drank anything stronger than wine or ale, and Bilbo didn't keep spirits in the house, except for one very dusty bottle of brandy. As far as the dwarves were concerned, however, alcohol was best drunk from the bottle and _by _the bottle, and they had been at it all night.

"Last one," Fili said, returning from the kitchen with a bottle of 1296 Old Winyard in one hand and a battered scone in the other. Bilbo hoped that he meant the scones and not the vintage.

Fili handed the bottle to his brother and briefly contemplated the pastry. "Here, Frodo—catch!"

He tossed it across the room, and grinned when Frodo snatched it out of the air. Three bites and a scattering of crumbs later, it was gone.

"Thank you," Frodo said, mouth full. "They're much better than mama's."

Fili grinned. "You'd better not let her hear that."

"She can't," said Frodo. "She's dead."

Kili, who had just triumphantly popped the cork out of the wine bottle, froze. It would have been comic under any other circumstances.

"She died on the river," Frodo added. "There was a boat, and it tipped over. She drowned. Do dwarves have mothers?"

"Yes," Fili said, suddenly gentle. "We do."

"What's your mama like?"

"Very strict," he said. "And very strong. With dark hair and dark eyes, like Kili. We haven't seen her in a long time, though. She lives in the Blue Mountains to the west of here."

"Are you going to visit her? Is that why you came?"

"We came to visit your uncle," he said. "But if Thorin permits it—"

"I will," Thorin said. He was sitting with his back to the bay window, Bilbo curled up beside him. "Dís would have my head if I kept you from her."

Bilbo was pressed so close that he could feel the rumble of Thorin's strong voice, and he shivered as Thorin toyed with a lock of his curly hair, calloused fingers rough against the skin of his neck. A scattered collection of furniture had been dragged into the room, but somehow they'd all ended up sitting on the floor, undignified and graceless.

It was habit, Bilbo supposed—a quiet reminder of months of campfires and keeping watch. Those days on the road were his only memories of the dwarves, but everything else in his life, before or since, seemed small and distant in comparison.

"Does your mama have a beard?" Frodo asked. He was eyeing Kili's scruffy face with frank suspicion. "Uncle Bilbo says that all dwarves have beards, but I don't think I believe him."

Well, Bilbo amended, _almost_ everything.

"Kili's always been a great disappointment to our family," said Fili, straight-faced. "Mother has a lovely beard."

Kili scowled. "See if I share any of my wine with you, brother."

"Oh, it's your wine, is it? News to me." Bilbo was tempted to march over and snatch the bottle away from both of them, but Thorin was a warm, comfortable presence beside him, and more than once it had occurred to him that Thorin might vanish the moment Bilbo let him go, like a daydream or a will o' the wisp.

"I beg your pardon, Master Baggins," Fili said, and stole the bottle back from Kili. "_Your_ wine. And quality stuff it is, too."

Frodo, losing interest in the conversation, wandered over to where Bofur was sitting, a pile of Bilbo's books and manuscripts beside him. "Don't read that one," Frodo said, pointing to the heavy tome that Bofur had just picked up.

"Hello to you too, lad," Bofur said. "Not tired yet?"

Frodo shook his head. "Not even a little."

"And here I'm dead on my feet. Tell me about this book that I shouldn't be reading, then."

"It's _Lore of the First Age_," Frodo told him obediently. "It's a book of sad stories. Mostly people dying. You wouldn't like it."

"Why not?"

"Why would you read sad stories when you could read happy stories instead?" Frodo asked, making a face.

"You pick one, then."

Frodo lit up and scampered out of the room. A moment later, there was a crash and a small yelp from the direction of Bilbo's study.

Thorin tensed, halfway to his feet in an instant, but Bilbo tugged him back down. "Oh, it's nothing," he said. "The lad's growing like a weed. He'll spend the next six months figuring out where his knees and elbow are."

Sure enough, Frodo reappeared several minutes later, disheveled but whole. "I broke the vase on your desk, uncle," he said, softly, a few slim books clutched to his chest. "I'm sorry."

"The big one, with the paisley pattern?"

Frodo nodded miserably.

"Good lad!" Bilbo said, looking very pleased. "My aunt Camellia gave that to me on my thirty-third birthday, and I've been trying to get rid of it ever since. Any cuts or bruises?"

"No." Frodo hesitated. "Does that mean you're not angry with me?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I have more ugly old vases that you could break in a dozen years, although you're welcome to make the attempt. Which books did you pick out?"

"Um. The one about Durin the Deathless, and _Gundabad Tales_. Then _Nogrod and Belegost_, and your old poetry book."

"You write poetry?" Bofur said, delighted.

Bilbo flushed. "I dabble occasionally, but it's nothing at all to boast about. Why don't you put that one back, Frodo?"

"But I'd like to read it," Bofur said. "I'm sure it's grand."

"If you'd like." Bilbo said, more flattered than he cared to admit. He was rather proud of his poetry, even though letting anyone else read it made him a trifle anxious.

Frodo plunked the books down beside Bofur and began flipping through them, carefully pointing out his favorite parts. It did Bilbo's heart good to see Frodo so outgoing and quick to make friends. By Shire standards, the dwarves were grim and dangerous fellows indeed—even Bofur, with his silly hat and crinkled-face grins—but Frodo seemed oblivious.

"He's a brave boy," Thorin said, echoing Bilbo's thoughts. "He asked Fili about his scars. Over supper."

"Oh, dear," Bilbo said, twisting around to face Thorin. "I'll tell him to apologize—"

"Don't. Fili's proud of them."

Bilbo glanced towards the hearth. Fili was leaning against the wall, eyes closed. Kili was sprawled out close to the fire, like an oversized cat drawn to the warmth, his head pillowed on his brother's thighs. He hummed tunelessly as Fili ran a hand through his hair. "No braids," Kili mumbled.

"I've given up trying," Fili said. "You uncultured savage." The firelight cast flickering shadows on the scars that ran across his face, four hideous gashes that had healed only imperfectly.

"He and his guards were returning from the Iron Hills," Thorin murmured, wrapping his arms more securely around Bilbo and drawing him closer. "They were ambushed on the road, hours away from Erebor. Kili spent the rest of that year slaughtering every warg pack that strayed within a hundred miles."

Bilbo had seen the brothers go to war once, when they'd been little more than children. He almost pitied the wargs.

"I don't suppose—" he began, but Thorin was staring across the room, hand clenched tight on Bilbo's shoulder. Bilbo followed his gaze, baffled by his sudden tension.

Frodo was sitting next to Bofur, a heavy book open in front of them. "Durin the Deathless they called him, known across the lands and ageless in memory," he recited. He had most of it by heart. "Though in the long waning of the Elder Days he died at last, and they raised a tomb for him in the great halls of Khazad-dûm, and that place was sacred ever after…"

"You taught him our history," Thorin said, voice strained. "He knows of my ancestors."

"He's good with names and languages," Bilbo said, still puzzled. "In a year or two I might try to teach him Sindarin."

Thorin scowled. "Teach him Khuzdul, if you're going to—" he broke off, a faint flush coloring his cheeks.

Bilbo stared at him, scrambling for something to say.

It was an absurd suggestion, and Thorin had obviously realized it. Bilbo couldn't teach Frodo Khuzdul any more than he could teach him to fly.

Years ago, in the early days of the journey to Erebor, Bilbo had asked if his companions might teach him some of their language. The question was met with blank, appalled silence, and it had fallen to Gandalf to explain the nature of Bilbo's innocent mistake. He'd never dared to bring it up again. Khuzdul was the sacred language that Aulë had given to his children, and they guarded it more jealously than any treasure.

Bilbo let the matter drop. He had long ago accepted that there were some distances too great to be bridged. Thorin was one of Durin's heirs. Bilbo was the son of a fussy gentlehobbit whose most notable accomplishment had been marrying Belladonna Took. Thorin was the king of his people and Bilbo was a neighborhood curiosity among his own.

Bilbo wasn't a child, to fuss over something that couldn't be fixed.

"His line endured through war and grief, and five times an heir of Durin was born who was like unto Durin himself..." Frodo had finished the tale of Durin and moved on to reciting the genealogies, which he loved contrary to all reasonable expectations. It was probably dull as ditchwater to his audience, but the dwarves gave every appearance of rapt attention. Even Thorin was listening, though the tension hadn't entirely left his body.

But soon Frodo was yawning, his voice growing softer, the names slurring together. "You tell the rest, uncle" he finally murmured, and Bilbo hadn't been reciting for five minutes before Frodo was sound asleep, huddled under his quilt, his breathing soft and steady.

"…thus the story will endure so long as his royal line," Bilbo ways saying as he lifted Frodo up into his arms. "And his heirs need never fear when Mahal calls them home, for they are honored in his halls. Oof. Soon you'll be too heavy for this, my boy."

Frodo didn't wake. Bilbo carried him to the spare bedroom and tucked him in, draping the quilt over his small form. Even as a younger hobbit, Bilbo hadn't been the paternal sort; he was fond enough of his nieces and nephews, but he had never wished for children of his own. When Frodo had first appeared on his doorstep, Bilbo let him stay out of pity, not love.

But already it was hard to imagine his life without muddy footprints on the carpet and pies forever vanishing from the windowsill. It would be a hard blow if Rory insisted that the lad return to Brandy Hall at the end of the summer.

He patted Frodo on the shoulder and turned to leave, but just as he was shutting the door behind him, a soft voice called "Uncle?"

"Yes?"

"Promise that you won't leave without telling me first."

Bilbo's heart ached. "I'm not going anywhere, Frodo. I would never leave you alone."

"That's what mama used to say." Frodo buried himself in his blankets so that only the top of his curly head was showing in the dim light. "Good night, uncle."

"Good night, Frodo."

He returned to the dwarves. They were talking amongst themselves, something about messengers and the Blue Mountains, but Bilbo was too exhausted to pay attention. He sat by the windows, curling up beside Thorin without so much as a by-your-leave.

It had been so many years since anyone had taken care of him, he thought muzzily. Although the dwarves needed rather more looking after than he did. Whatever was he going to about his wine cellar?

"It will be dawn soon," Thorin said. "We should get some rest."

Bilbo forced his weary mind into action.

"You'll have my bed, Thorin," he said. "I'll kip in Frodo's room. I have a cot, and plenty of blankets, but only the one guest bedroom. Tomorrow I can see about—"

"Don't fret," Bofur said. "I'll do well enough on the floor."

Fili nodded. "Kili and I as well."

"Speak for yourself," Kili said. But then he grinned. "No, he's right. There were thirteen of us before, remember? I think I ended up sleeping under a table."

Unfortunately, going to bed meant getting up, and hauling the spare bedding out of storage, and getting undressed—it all sounded like such a bother, and Bilbo let his eyes drift shut instead. He was perfectly comfortable where he was, and the others must have felt the same. Predawn light was filtering into through the windows, and the fire burned down to embers, before anyone spoke again.

It was Kili who broke the silence. "I think I'm getting old," he said, wincing as he sat up. "I ache. Everywhere."

"That's what you get for being reckless," Fili said. "If you could go a month without getting stabbed or breaking a bone or hitting your head—"

"Right. Next time we're attacked by goblins, I'll invite them in for tea and a late lunch."

"If you're old, then I'm in my dotage," Bilbo said, rubbing his eyes. Had he fallen asleep? "We hobbits don't have the advantage of dwarven lifespans, you know."

"So we've heard," Fili said. "But no one would know it to look at you."

"I'm just glad to see you looking so well," said Bofur. He stood up, rubbing his shoulder ruefully. "We wondered sometimes. About. You know."

"How inconvenient, if you'd come all the way from Erebor only to find me dead!" said Bilbo, laughing a little. No one else joined in.

"The thought had occurred." Thorin's voice was flat.

"Oh. Oh, I see," Bilbo said awkwardly. "Yes. Well, it irritates my relatives no end. They were in the middle of auctioning off my things when I first got back from Erebor—"

"They _what_?"

He had forgotten how terrifying Thorin could look when he was angry. "I got most of it back," he said hurriedly. "Didn't lose anything except the silver and some furniture. But my cousins have been waiting for me to die properly ever since, you see, and I refuse to oblige."

"How _dare_ they," Thorin said, still fuming. "Is that their notion of a proper welcome for hero returned from war? Of all the low, contemptible—but I should not speak so of your family. Forgive me."

"Well, I don't like them much myself," Bilbo said. He forced himself not to think about the last time Thorin had apologized to him, when Bilbo had just been carried off a battlefield and Thorin had been choking on his own blood. It still felt wrong to hear such a proud king asking for anyone's pardon.

"Stubbornness is all well and good," said Bofur. "Mahal knows you're bullheaded as the best of us. But if I didn't know better I'd think you had a touch of elf-blood in you, you're that unchanged."

Bilbo made a face. "I wouldn't go that far. But it is—well, it is a bit strange. It worried me at first, but it's a silly thing to complain about, isn't it?"

"Indeed," Thorin said, and that was the end of that.

By the time Bilbo had fetched the spare bedding and set up the cot in the spare room, the clouds were pink with dawn, and the rest of the neighborhood was already stirring. Fili and Kili, on the other hand, hadn't moved an inch, still curled up together by the hearth. Bilbo tossed a few blankets in their direction and let them be. Bofur claimed the cot and brought the stack of books along with him, unwilling to let his newfound treasures out of his sight.

Bilbo refused to blush when he showed Thorin into his bedroom, though he wished he'd done a better job tidying up. "I'll be just down the hall and to the left if you need anything," Bilbo said as Thorin sat down on the bed and tugged off his boots. "Not that you would. Need anything, that is. From me. I'll be going now."

Thorin's face was in shadow, and his voice unreadable. "Stay," he said. "No point in waking Frodo. There's room for both of us."

Bilbo only hesitated for a moment. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

Thorin huffed impatiently. "If I minded, I wouldn't have offered. Come to bed."

The words warmed Bilbo in a way that no wine could. He shrugged off his waistcoat and fumbled with the top buttons of his shirt, then slipped under the covers beside Thorin. He was too tired to bother with getting comfortable, or to fret about giving Thorin his fair share of the blankets. Thorin had never been shy about taking what he wanted.

"You came all the way from Erebor to see me," he mumbled into his pillow. "You have a whole kingdom to rule, and you didn't even know if I was alive. I don't understand."

"Go to sleep," Thorin said.

Bilbo almost obeyed, but—he couldn't. He needed to know that Thorin would still be there when he woke up in the morning. "Thorin," he said, and the name was like a prayer. "Thorin. Tell me."

Silence.

"I knew you for a few bleak months," said Thorin at last. "And I still wake up wishing that you were beside me. I am surrounded by my kin and kingdom, but even in Erebor I am lonely for you."

"You've never even kissed me," Bilbo said. He couldn't decide if it was funny or sad, or something else entirely.

Thorin sighed. In one swift movement he rolled over, cradled Bilbo's face in his broad hands, and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

"There. Now will you go to sleep?"

Bilbo exhaled shakily. "Right, yes. Sleep."

Thorin tucked Bilbo close, tangling their legs together. Bilbo, accustomed to sleeping alone, worried that he might feel trapped or claustrophobic, but Thorin was a comfortable weight at his side, and he fell asleep to the sound of his slow, steady breathing. He dreamed of nothing in particular.

When Bilbo woke, afternoon sunlight was streaming in through the windows. He was alone, but Thorin's muddy boots were still lying on the floor, and his sheathed sword was slung over the bedpost. From the direction of the kitchen, Bilbo could hear the clatter of pots and pans, and the sound of familiar laughter.

It would be a fine summer day.


	6. good as gold

**this unexpected summer of the heart**

part vi

A/N: I know that according to book!canon, Frerin died near the East Gate at Azanulbizar, but the movie didn't mention him at all, so I don't feel too guilty for fiddling. Endless thanks to grav_ity for offering to beta this fic!

Disclaimer: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest.

* * *

Bilbo was still drowsing some indeterminate time later. He knew, as every sensible hobbit did, that beds were never more comfortable than in the lazy hour after waking, so he kicked the sheets down to the end of the bed and buried his face in the eiderdown softness of his pillow. Judging from the delicious smells beginning to waft through the house, one of the dwarves was cooking a late breakfast, and Bilbo was quite content to let them get on with it.

Sure enough, he soon heard someone walking down the hallway, and then the bedroom door creaking open. Moments later, the bed dipped as Thorin—it couldn't be anyone else—sat down on the edge of the mattress. "There's food if you're hungry," he said, and began rubbing small circles on Bilbo's lower back, his hand rough and warm against the thin cotton of Bilbo's shirt. "Eggs and bacon and a tolerable lake of tea."

Bilbo made a small happy noise, muffled by the pillow. "That sounds lovely, thank you."

"Did you sleep well?"

"Mhmf. Yes. But shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Thorin chucked. "You weren't such a polite host last time."

"I didn't love you so much last time," Bilbo said, drowsily sincere. "For someone so noble and handsome, you were terribly rude."

Thorin's hand stilled, and the last traces of Bilbo's sleepiness faded into sharp embarrassment. "I'm sorry," he said, sitting up and dislodging Thorin's hand in the process. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

But Thorin didn't look angry, or embarrassed. In fact, he was staring at Bilbo with something like wonder. "Do you have any idea," he said, "how very much I—"

But words seemed to fail him, and instead he tugged Bilbo up for another kiss. Thorin's lips were chapped and rough from weeks and months of travel, and his beard was scratchy, but Bilbo didn't mind. He wriggled closer and settled his hands on Thorin's broad shoulders, dizzy with the knowledge that Thorin wanted him like this, that he could touch and hold and love as he pleased.

"Breakfast," Thorin reminded him, when they finally pulled apart. "Else the children will come looking for us."

"Frodo's too polite for that," Bilbo said, and he felt rather than saw Thorin's smile.

"My brats, not yours," said Thorin. "Fili and Kili are shameless."

Bilbo laughed. "It's nice to know that some things haven't changed."

Eventually he dragged himself out Thorin's warm embrace and fumbled around for a set of clean, unwrinkled clothes. It was some time later that they finally made it out to the dining room, and by then most of the food had vanished.

"My pantry," Bilbo sighed, mournfully cataloging the remains of the magnificent spread that had been laid out across the table less than an hour before. "I don't suppose you saved a few rashers of bacon?"

"Good morning to you, too," Fili said easily. "And there's plenty of everything left in the kitchen."

Bilbo went to investigate, and returned with a more than satisfactory plate and an entire pot of tea. "Where's Bofur?" he asked, sitting down at the table between Kili and Thorin. "Still abed?"

"Not hardly. He was the one that cooked all of this. I'm useless in the kitchen, and Fili's far too grand for housework these days," Kili said, and yelped as Fili kicked him under the table.

"Says the spoiled little princeling who won't dig latrines."

Thorin ignored them both. "Frodo conscripted his new favorite dwarf into running errands with him," he said. "I hope you don't mind."

"Frodo does as he likes, and he doesn't need me fussing. I trust him to be sensible. Did he say what he was after?"

Thorin shook his head.

"Something to do with presents, I think," Kili offered. "Maybe he was going to a party?"

Bilbo took a moment to revel in the absurd wonder of the moment. Here he was, sitting and eating a shamefully late breakfast with two princes and the richest king in Arda, while his beloved nephew was dragging Bofur hither and yon across the Shire.

"Close enough," Bilbo said at last, hiding his giddy expression behind a cup of tea. "We're having an early birthday party tomorrow."

"Why early?" Fili asked. He stole the last two slices of bacon from his brother's plate, and smiled beatifically when Kili glared. "And if it's his party, why is he the one buying presents?"

"Hobbits give gifts to others on their birthdays," Bilbo said, and ignored the raised eyebrows that garnered. "Frodo was born on September 22, by Shire-reckoning—"

"The same as you," Thorin said.

Thorin remembered his birthday? "Yes," Bilbo said, reminding himself sternly that he was a grown Hobbit and not a blushing tween. "Just so. But I don't know if Frodo will be here come September, and he's popular among the Hobbiton lads and lasses. I thought a quiet little celebration couldn't go amiss, even if the Brandybucks have a proper party on the day itself. What boy wouldn't like to have two birthday parties?"

Thorin frowned. "You talk as if you have no say in the matter. Why? He's your family."

"Not officially. His mother's relatives took him in after his parents died, and I'm only his first cousin once removed. Or his second cousin once removed, on his father's side. I've no particular claim."

"But he spends all his time here," Kili protested. "And you're good as gold with him." His chair scraped against the floor as he got to his feet, and began collecting the dirty dishes—for no other reason, Bilbo strongly suspected, than to prove his brother wrong. Fili stood and began to help, and so did Thorin.

Between the three of them they soon had the table cleared, and the dishes in the sink. Thorin and his nephews worked well together, the coordination and easy movement born of long familiarity, and Bilbo did his best to avoid getting in their way.

"It's quieter here," Bilbo explained as they worked. "And Frodo gets more attention. He was an only child, and his parents lived a secluded life—or what passes as secluded for a bright young couple. Brandy Hall, on the other hand, is a madhouse at the best of times. I daresay he'll grow used to it eventually." The words rolled easily off his tongue. He'd heard them often enough from Rory and Menegilda.

Kili and Fili soon fell into an argument over the difference between a second cousin and a cousin once removed, and Bilbo poured himself another cup of tea, chuckling at some of Kili's more convoluted attempts to explain. Apparently neither of them had paid as much attention to their own genealogies as their family might have wished. Bilbo half-expected the conversation to end in a wrestling match, or at least with the brothers flicking soapy water at one another, but of course they weren't children anymore, no matter what their uncle said.

Thorin, however, still looked dissatisfied. He tugged Bilbo away from the good-natured clamor of the kitchen, and they settled down in the study. Bilbo had made vague attempts to tidy the room in the past, but all in vain; it was a perpetual clutter of books, maps, scraps of parchment and poetry. The only thing free of dust was a large empty space on the desk: all that remained of Aunt Camilla's paisley vase. Bilbo sat at the desk chair and nursed his cooling cup of tea as Thorin quizzed him on the details of legal adoption in the Shire, and the nature of the Shire's government, and the respective standing of the Baggins and Brandybuck families. Bilbo answered his endless questions as patiently as he could.

He tried not to show how much he hated the reminders that Frodo was only a temporary guest in Bag End, but Thorin must have noticed his distress. Eventually he nodded, and thanked Bilbo solemnly.

"I don't mean to pry," he said, never mind that he'd been doing just that for almost an hour. "But the child matters to you."

Bilbo huffed out an impatient breath. "Of course he does. I love him. But that's no guarantee of anything, is it?"

"No. It's not." Thorin didn't meet Bilbo's eyes.

Fili and Kili were long gone, though Bilbo hadn't the faintest notion where they might have wandered off to. Quite likely they had the right idea. It was too fine a day to waste indoors.

"How about a walk?" he said presently. "We could meet the neighbors, or wander off to be solitary and disagreeable."

"As you like," Thorin said, indifferent. "I came here for you, not scenery or good society."

"Are you trying to charm me, Thorin Oakenshield?"

Thorin raised his eyebrows. "I've been reliably informed that I'm about as charming as a dead horse."

Bilbo almost choked on his tea. "Who in the world—"

"My sister has a sharp tongue, and she knew me when I was still a dreamy, awkward boy. Sometimes she carries on the childhood tradition by writing me rude letters."

Bilbo clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. "I see," he managed.

Thorin smiled wryly. "I was the eldest and the heir, but Dís was always my father's darling. She got away with murder. More than once, actually."

"You're joking," Bilbo said, but Thorin shook his head.

"When we were children, there was a plot to kill grandfather. Dís discovered it first, and—well. Dealt with matters as she saw fit."

"What about your brother?" Bilbo asked, trying to hide his shock. Thorin never mentioned him, but sometimes Fili and Kili told secondhand stories about their younger uncle and his death in battle. "What was he like?"

Abruptly, Thorin stood. "Do you want more tea?"

Bilbo's cup was still half full. "Yes, please," he lied, taking a few hasty gulps of the stone-cold brew.

Thorin stomped into the kitchen and returned several minutes later with two steaming cups. "Dís and I took after our father," he said, as he set them down on the end table. He didn't return to his chair. Instead he walked to the window and leaned against the frame, staring out into the gardens, past the crumbling stone wall and down the road beyond.

"Like our father," he repeated. "Dark, and proud, and desperate to prove ourselves. But Frerin was our mother's child. Father thought him too bright and merry, but he was the darling of the court, and his soldiers loved him. Everyone did. He had a dozen suitors before he came of age. And why not? Sister and I were skinny and swarthy, but Mahal might have crafted Frerin out of living metal. He was handsomest when he laughed, and he laughed all the time."

"What happened to him?"

"He was like gold," Thorin continued, as if he hadn't heard the question. Idly, he traced the lines of sunlight glowing on the burnished wood of the windowsill. "A precious thing. Everyone wanted to reach out and touch. I didn't see him die. But I dream of it sometimes, how he melted in the dragonfire. There was nothing to bury or mourn."

Thorin turned away from the window, light suddenly catching him in profile. He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. It's only that—no one has said his name in my presence in years. Not since he died."

Bilbo believed him. No one would be brave or stupid enough to ask Fili about his little brother, if Kili was dead, and surely Thorin had loved Frerin just as much.

"Let's go for that walk," Bilbo said, soft in the silence that followed. "I'll take you on one of my rambles."

* * *

Ramble they did. Bilbo led Thorin along his favorite paths and down to his childhood haunts, all as familiar to him as the letters of his own name. They walked by the modest hobbit holes of Bagshot Row, and the cattails and willows that grew on the banks of the Bywater, and the soft grass that swept over low rolling hills. They explored quiet dusky woods, and the brooks that wound their way through the trees, tributaries of the Brandywine River that flowed to the sea. Thorin spoke only rarely, but smiled often as he listened to Bilbo's stories, and even laughed once or twice. It was a vast improvement on the quiet, uncertain misery that had haunted him when he spoke of Frerin, and the first stars were shining dim in the twilight before they began making their way back home.

"Supper will be waiting," Thorin said, as they scrambled over a ditch and onto the road, as muddy and haphazard as a pair of tweens. "I told Bofur to bring some coin to the market. By now we owe you for the contents of your pantry twice over. And," he added lightly, "it wouldn't do to let your company go hungry."

"Perish the thought," said Bilbo, straight-faced. "No respectable hobbit would refuse dinner to a guest. Or several guests. Or thirteen guests and one very pushy wizard."

He kicked a small stone down the road. It skittered to a half right in front of the nose of a massive bloodhound who was drowsing in the soft tilled earth of Mr. and Mrs. Bolger's flowerbeds. The dog whuffed gently and resettled itself on the begonias, but perked up when Thorin knelt beside him and scratched him behind the ears.

"I didn't know hobbits kept dogs, at least not of this size. He would do for a small pony."

Bilbo watched Thorin fuss over the animal and tried not to smile. "Farmer Maggot breeds them to scare away children stealing his crops. But he treats them kindly, and they don't bite."

Rosamunda Bolger stuck her head out the window. "Mister Baggins?"

"Don't mind us, Rosie. My friend is just admiring Bull."

Rosamunda brightened at that. She had bought Bullroarer from Farmer Maggot when he was still a pup, and she was proud as anything of him. "He'll be seven years old this October," she said. "And he still keeps me company on market days, and when I go down to the river for washing."

"What a fine, loyal fellow," Thorin said, and didn't protest when the dog began licking his face.

"You haven't introduced me to your company, Mister Baggins," Rosamunda said, eyeing Thorin with open curiosity. She was one of the Old Took's many great-grandchildren, and that made her Bilbo's first cousin once removed. "Bell told me that Hamson said you were keeping a troop of dwarves in Bag End, but I confess I didn't believe her."

Bilbo looked inquiringly at Thorin, who nodded his permission. "Thorin, this is Mrs. Rosamunda Bolger, my neighbor and second-favorite cousin. Rosie, this is Thorin Oakenshield. He and his family have come to stay at Bag End for a little while." That was safe enough, and had the added virtue of being true; few hobbits had even heard of Erebor, much less knew the name of its king.

Or perhaps they did. "Oh, my," Rosamunda gasped. "Not the one that Adeline's husband told stories about, surely? Not the dwarf king from across the mountains?"

If Thorin was surprised, he hid it well. "The same, goodwife," he said, and gave Bullroarer one last affectionate pat before getting to his feet. "You have a lovely home, and a fine dog to guard it."

Rosie, to her credit, curtsied with great aplomb. "Well, your highness, if that isn't the sweetest thing I've heard all day." She paused. "Is that what I'm supposed to call you? Your highness?"

"Actually, kings are called _your majesty_," Bilbo said, but Thorin waved him off.

"Goodwife, this king is called Thorin Oakenshield. I won't stand on ceremony, not with Bilbo's second-favorite cousin."

Rosamunda laughed. "All of his cousins are his second-favorite, Mister Thorin," she said confidentially. "And all his Tookish nieces and nephews. He spoiled us with presents and stories when we were younger."

"Just as an uncle should," Thorin said. Bilbo made a mental note to ask Fili and Kili how Thorin had dealt with them as children. He tried to imagine a young Thorin listening to Kili babble nonsense words, or showing Fili how to work iron and swing a sword. Had he brought them presents from distant villages, or held them close and soothed them after nightmares? Had he tried to make up for the gaping hole in their family where Frerin should have been?

"—and never mind that we thought he made it all up," Rosamunda was saying, when Bilbo shook himself free of his wandering thoughts. "But now I see he was telling the truth all along. A king staying in Bag End! It's the most exciting thing to happen since Adeline ran off and married her soldier."

Bilbo said their goodbyes soon after that, dragging Thorin away before Rosie tried to invite them in for tea. Rosamunda had always been an inquisitive girl, and her daughter was every bit as clever and curious. Living in Hobbiton bored both of them to tears.

"I'll see you tomorrow at Frodo's party," she called as they headed down the road once more. "My Estella can hardly wait."

"Oh, now you're in for it," said Bilbo, once they were safely out of earshot. "Estella's a terror. She'll crawl all over you and cling to your legs and demand stories."

"I don't mind. Though if your Frodo is anything to go by, hobbit children are smaller than they have any right to be. If I don't watch where I'm walking, I fear I'll step on one." Suddenly Thorin frowned, nodding towards the stout hobbit who was glaring at them over a hedgerow. "Who's that?"

"That," Bilbo said, "is Mr. Burrows, our local blacksmith, and by far the most suspicious and disagreeable out of anyone you're likely to meet. I expect he's terrified of losing trade."

"Oh?" Thorin said. "If I've already gained his enmity, I might as well do as the innkeeper at Bree said, and take up smithing to earn my keep here."

Bilbo's tone was lofty. "There's no need for that! I'm quite a wealthy hobbit, you know. Tunnels filled with treasure, according to the Bagshot Row gossips. You could stay here and be a kept dwarf."

Thorin didn't reply, but he wrapped an arm around Bilbo's shoulders and drew him closer as they walked, pointedly ignoring Mr. Burrows. It was more than ten minutes later that he said, with no particular inflection, "Or you could come back with me to Erebor, and be a kept hobbit."

It was the obvious question, the subject that they'd all been dancing around since last night. Still, Bilbo wasn't ready for it. He faltered and came to a stop.

"Thorin, if you'd asked ten years ago," he said, "or even ten weeks, I'd have been packed and tugging you out the door before you could finish the question. But now—"

"You have Frodo." Thorin's voice was bleak.

Bilbo reached out and grabbed the king's hand. "I can't leave him. Not when he's lost so much already. I promised him, and I'm not cruel enough to break a promise to a child."

Thorin didn't reply.

"I'm sorry," Bilbo said. He felt like the most wretched sort of cad. "I don't mean to hurt you."

"Don't apologize," said Thorin at last, staring down at their joined hands. "It's enough to know that you're alive and well. No honorable suitor would leave his intended for so many years with no understanding, and no promise between them."

"Don't be ridiculous." Bilbo held on stubbornly when Thorin tried to pull away. "You left your kingdom to visit me. I could never ask for anything more." He hated the unhappiness in Thorin's voice, but he had no notion what he could say to lessen it. "I do love you," he said again. "I wish that were enough."

Thorin managed a small smile. "It is," he said. "It's more than I have any right to expect."

When they at last came within sight of Bag End, Frodo came barreling out of the door and down the path to greet them. "Uncle!" he cheered as he careened into Bilbo's arms. "Bofur and I went down to the market, and I got presents for everyone that's coming to the party, and I even picked out one for Hamson's baby brother, the one that isn't born yet, because Missus Bell was talking about him yesterday and she said his name was going to be Samwise and I think that's a good name for a baby brother, don't you? And Bofur was telling me stories about _his_ brothers, and he said that maybe they could visit someday too, and I told him that we would have another party just for them, and won't that be fun? And—"

"You're a hobbit lad, not a babbling brook," said Bilbo, clapping a hand over Frodo's mouth. "You can tell me all about it once we're inside and sitting down, like respectable folk."

"But we're not a bit respectable," Frodo said, words muffled. "Everybody says so. Because you go off on adventures and keep company with dwarves."

Bilbo set Frodo back down and pushed him in the direction of the door, but Frodo dug his heels and peered around Bilbo to look up at Thorin. "Can you stay forever?" he asked, hopefully. "You can even come to my party if you want. I got a present for you, too."

"I thank you for the invitation," Thorin said, solemnly. "And for the gift."

"And you'll stay?"

"Until late September, perhaps."

Frodo smiled. "I'm glad," he said, and wriggled free of Bilbo's grip to give Thorin a quick, impulsive hug. "You make Uncle happy."

He darted back into the house, but Thorin remained at the gate, as still as a statue.

"I think he likes you," Bilbo said, fond and happy and a little bit sad, all at once. He took Thorin by the hand once again, and led him up the steps. Supper was waiting, and Frodo had stories to tell.


	7. glissando

**this unexpected summer of the heart**

part vii

**A/N**: Someday I will actually stick to a reasonable update schedule. Someday. Maybe. In other news, Thorin is my favorite harpist dwarf ever. Thanks to my beta grav_ity for being endlessly patient with me!

**Disclaimer**: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest.

* * *

The morning had dawned cool and soft, fog drifting in over the lake and settling on houses and hedges. From the front steps of Bag End, it looked as if the whole world had vanished overnight, and been replaced with a field of wispy grey clouds. Frodo, wakened early by a restless dream, spent almost an hour curled up on a window seat beside the wilting jasmine flowers, staring outside. His breath misted on the glass.

There was a ladybug—a little dot of color, as red as a cherry, with a dusting of tiny black spots along its back—climbing along the wooden sill. It trundled over Frodo's feet, oblivious to the potential danger, but froze in alarm when he wriggled his toes.

"Poor old Spot," he said, gently scooping the little bug up and giving it a gentle pat on the back with his index finger. "You should be out in the gardens. You might get stepped on otherwise."

He unlatched the window and swung it open with his free hand, leaning out into the open air. It wasn't raining, or even drizzling, but the air felt damp and clammy on his skin. "Go on," he said. Spot obediently flew from Frodo's hand and landed on a nearby pot of marigolds, vanishing into the riot of orange and yellow blossoms. But even the cheeriest of the flowers in the garden seemed soft and fade. Frodo wondered if some strange spirit had appeared in the night, and stolen all the color from the Shire.

He amused himself for a while by telling himself the story of an elvish painter, a wanderer who hadn't the coin for canvas or tints. Instead, he stole through forests and sleepy little villages, taking reds from wild roses and blues from deep mountain lakes, greens from the mosses that grew soft on the trunks of trees. He was just wondering what his painter's name when he heard a door creak open and close, and he craned around to see his uncle step out of the master bedroom, yawning, wrapped in an old checkered dressing gown.

"You're up early, my lad," he said, joining Frodo by the window. "Couldn't sleep?"

Frodo shook his head.

"Bad dreams again?"

Frodo nodded. "The river," he said. He drew two squiggly lines on the foggy window panes. Then he added a little tiny boat in between them. "The boat tipped and the water was over my head. I couldn't breathe. Then I woke up."

Bilbo put an arm around Frodo's shoulders and kissed the top of his head. "Do you want a cup of tea?"

"Yes, please."

Frodo pressed his forehead against the cool glass, thinking of all the elves in his uncle's books and wondering which ones his painter was related to. He listened absently as his uncle puttered around in the kitchen, opening cupboards and rummaging through the pantry and hanging the kettle over the hearth. "Uncle, what would you name a wandering elf?" he called.

"That depends. What sort of elf is he?"

"A painter. He sings the colors out of flowers and paints pictures with them. Then he sells them to lonely travelers, or grand old nobles in stone castles."

Bilbo hummed in a thoughtful sort of way. That was what Frodo liked best about living in Bag End. In Brandy Hall, the grown-ups ruffled his hair and laughed when he told them his stories, or called him a silly little lad, or scolded him for wandering so far and thinking so wild. ("One day you'll run off into the forest, and get caught up in a spell or a strange elvish song," Menegilda would say. "And then where would be, child?"

Frodo said "With the elves, I guess," and was straightaway sent to his room for being pert.)

But Uncle Bilbo understood about stories. Sometimes they told them together, when they were going to market together or rambling along the banks of the Bywater. Frodo would start, and Bilbo would carry on for a while with seas and ships and fearless queens, and then Frodo would take up the telling again—on and on they would go, until they had both quite forgotten why their hero had set out from home in the first place.

Bilbo appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, a tea tray in hand. "Does he have dark hair, or light?"

Frodo thought for a moment. "Dark, so he can blend into the forest at night. That way he won't get caught by hunters and woodsmen."

"Very sensible. Then he should be Noldolantë, I think."

"And Lantë for short?"

Bilbo sat down on the window seat beside him. "Lantë. That sounds just right to me. Why does he have to steal his colors? Surely he's a wealthy lord, or the child of a powerful family."

"He was. His father was a king, and his mother was an artist, but then the king died in battle, and Lantë had to run away." Frodo took the cup that his uncle handed him, taking a daring sip even thought it was still steaming. He glanced up at Bilbo, waiting for a reproach, but Bilbo didn't say a word. He only smiled a little and handed Frodo the cream pitcher.

"When I was your age, I was forever burning my tongue on tea," Bilbo said. "No patience, that's what my father told me. He thought I would grow out of it. My mother knew better, of course. She and I understood that hot cinnamon tea is too good to wait for."

Frodo smiled at that, just a little. Bilbo talked about being young like his childhood was practically a story itself, something dim and distant, but Frodo knew better. The neighbors talked in hushed whispers about how Mr. Baggins had won a blessing from a wandering wizard at a tavern, and folk at the Green Dragon gossiped about how he'd been cursed by a vengeful sorcerer, for he never grew a day older. Ever since Frodo had been a tiny child, still toddling around the banks of the Brandywine and charming his parents' guests, Uncle Bilbo had looked as he did now, with auburn hair and a light step as spry as any young hobbit. His face was unwrinkled, except for the lines around his mouth that crinkled with he smiled. Sometimes there were dark circles under his eyes, but only after late nights spent writing by lamplight.

No, Uncle Bilbo wasn't old.

Frodo wrapped his fingers tighter around his teacup, the warm porcelain driving away the morning chill. "When will Hamson get here?" he asked.

"As soon as breakfast is on the table, I warrant. He can help us set up for your party."

Frodo bit his lip, setting his teacup aside. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he stubbornly refused to cry. He was too old to be acting like a baby. He'd been looking forward to the party all week, and Bilbo had arranged it especially for him, and all his friends would be there. He knew that he should be excited.

It was just—his mama had always loved parties. She would have spent all morning fussing and laughing and making everything just perfect. She would have shooed him away and sent him outside to play until the guests arrived. Why couldn't she have appeared on the doorstep of Bag End? Why couldn't she come visiting one bright summer day?

"Uncle," Frodo said, "I don't think I want a party."

Bilbo tried to ruffle his hair, but Frodo shrugged the touch away. Bilbo sighed.

"Oh, lad. I'm sorry. But the invitations went out last week, and all your friends are looking forward to it. Pearl's father is bringing her all the way from Tuckborough, and Posco and Gilly and all your cousins promised they'd be here, and the Gamgee children are all so excited."

"I don't care," Frodo said, stubbornly. "I don't want a party. It's not even my birthday."

"Well, we'll see. If it comes to it, I'll put about that you've taken sick—if you're stuck in bed and contagious, I don't suppose that anyone will bother you. I'll post Bofur at your door, how about that? He can stand outside and warn everyone off."

That should have made Frodo feel better, but it didn't. It only made him feel guilty. The dwarves had been excited about the party, too. Bofur had spent hours helping him find presents for everyone, and Kili had even promised to braid his hair for the occasion. Even Thorin had smiled a little, and said that he was looking forward to the celebrations—dwarves didn't have birthday parties like hobbits did, he had said.

Frodo sniffled and rubbed at his eyes. "I'm sorry, uncle," he said. "I don't mean to ruin things. I don't know why I'm so sad."

"Now, none of that," Bilbo said, kindly but stern. "No tears before breakfast. Finish your tea, and then up you get. You can help me make porridge."

Frodo obeyed, but he still felt small and wretched. Even though Bilbo made his favorite kind of porridge, with honey and sweet cream. Even though the fog was dissolving, and the sun peeping out bright and friendly through the clouds. Even though Hamson snuck in through the open window, brandishing a stick and leaping indoors with a war cry, while Bilbo was doing the dishes.

"Out," Bilbo said firmly. "I'll have no battles in my kitchen, thank you very much."

Hamson obeyed, once his warrior spirit satisfied by a handful of fresh strawberries. "I'll see you this afternoon!" he called back to Frodo as Bilbo ushered him out the front door. "I hope you got me a good present."

"I did," Frodo promised.

Thorin appeared only moments later, his hair tangled and his shirt half unlaced. "I heard shouting. Is everything well?"

Bilbo returned to the kitchen and patted him on the arm. "Goodness, no. We were attacked by a starving hobbit lad. It was dreadful. Wasn't it, Frodo?"

Frodo nodded solemnly. "He stole our strawberries."

"I see." Thorin looked slightly abashed.

"Really, Thorin," Bilbo said, spooning up another bowl of porridge and handing it to him. "Of all the things to fuss about. We're perfectly safe, I promise you. The most dangerous criminal in the Shire is my cousin Lobelia, and she's only a threat to the silverware."

Thorin sat down to eat, quiet as a mouse—if mice had clinking metal beads in their hair and wore heavy leather boots everywhere, at least. Frodo, bored with elves and painters, tried to imagine what Thorin would look like as a mouse. It was a funny thought, and he clapped a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. He didn't think Thorin was the sort of dwarf who liked being laughed at. Not like Bofur, who was never happier than when he was teasing a laugh out of someone. Or like Fili and Kili, who told Frodo wild tales and argued over who had killed more orcs. Thorin wasn't friendly like them. He wasn't mean; he didn't curse or shout or hit, like some of the cruel folk in Bilbo's stories did, and he treated Frodo with a careful sort of kindness. But for all that, Frodo didn't quite understand him.

And there was always the fear, lingering in every moment, that one day Thorin might steal Bilbo away, and that some dreary morning Frodo would wake up alone in an empty house. He knew it could happen. He remembered wandering for what felt like hours, calling for his parents—looking in all the rooms and then outside in the gardens, and at last down by the river.

Frodo shivered a little. Thorin, sitting beside him at the table, set down his spoon and pushed his bowl back. "Thank you for breakfast," he said to Bilbo. "Is there anything I can do?"

Bilbo stood up on his tip-toes to kiss Thorin on the cheek. Frodo watched the exchange with wide eyes.

"You can roust those two slugs you call nephews out of bed, and send them down the road to the Gamgees' house," Bilbo said. "It's the one with the yellow door and all the flowers in the front yard. Hamfast could use a few extra hands with the tables and chairs."

"I'll see to it," Thorin said.

"And when Bofur wakes up, ask him if he'll lend a hand with the baking. Oh, and—" Bilbo glanced at Frodo "—I think Frodo might have something for you, unless he'd rather wait for the party."

Frodo brightened immediately. "I'll be right back!" he said, and raced off to the spare room where he'd hidden all his presents. Thorin's was the best of the lot, and Bofur had promised that the king would like it. He spotted it quickly, and pulled it loose from the pile of wooden toys and baubles and books that surrounded it.

It was a small harp, prettily carved and well-tuned, made to be held in hand rather than set on the floor. Frodo couldn't resist the urge to run his fingers back and forth along the strings, and the notes rose and fell through the small room. He picked it up, carefully as he could. He couldn't imagine Thorin playing music of any sort, but Bofur had taken one look at the expensive little instrument and sworn that in the long ago days before Smaug, Thorin had owned one just like it.

It had cost almost all of Frodo's pocket money, and he'd had to borrow a few coins from Bofur to make up the difference. But it would be worth it, so long as Thorin liked it.

If Thorin was content in the Shire, maybe he would never leave. Maybe he would never take Bilbo away.

Frodo took a deep breath and rounded the corner into the kitchen, clutching the little harp close to his chest. "It's for you," he said, when Thorin said nothing. "For my birthday. I hope you like it."

He held the harp out. Thorin took it, face unreadable.

"This was well done," he said, tracing the carvings with his scarred fingers. "You have some fine craftsmen in the Shire."

Frodo stared down at his feet. "Bofur said you used to play."

"I did. More than a century ago. My mother was a harpist, and I learned at her knee." But still Thorin did not touch the strings. "I thank you for the gift."

"I thought maybe you could play something," Frodo spoke so softly that the words were almost inaudible. "At the party. If you wanted."

"No," Thorin said. "It's a kind thought," he added hastily, when Frodo slumped. "But I doubt I could manage it, even if I tried."

Frodo swallowed hard, trying to hide his disappointment. It didn't matter. Thorin was a great warrior king, after all. Why would he want an ugly little harp from a backwater like Hobbiton? Like as not there were a dozen harps made of pure old in the treasuries of Erebor.

A soft string of notes echoed through the small room. Frodo looked up, startled.

"That's a glissando," Thorin said, frowning in concentration. "And it should be easy. It's not."

Kili bounced into the kitchen, looking delighted. He was only half-dressed, his hair unbound and messy, but his grin was blinding. "Uncle, you're playing!"

Thorin muttered something unpleasant.

Kili ignored him. "Mother will be so happy. How in Mahal's name did you bully him into it, Bilbo?"

"Me? I don't have anything to do with it," Bilbo said. He filled two more bowls with porridge and handed one to Kili. "There's strawberries and cream on the table, and fresh bread with fig jam. Leave some for Fili and Bofur, will you?"

Kili sat down at the table and began eating with gusto. "That's a fine harp," he said in between mouthfuls of porridge, looking admiringly at his uncle's newest treasure. "Where'd you get it?"

"Frodo gave it to me. For his birthday, as I understand it."

Kili shook his head. "You hobbits really do beat all. Giving everyone else presents, and not getting any in return."

"Not everyone's as spoiled as you," said Fili as he wandered into the kitchen, entirely dressed and looking less disheveled than anyone else in the room. "What's all this, then?"

"Thorin's playing the harp!" Kili sing-songed, at the same time Thorin said "Your brother is asking for a backhand."

But he didn't sound all that angry, and he was holding his new harp so very carefully.

A few minutes later, when no one was looking, Frodo stole the last of the strawberries and shyly handed the one to Thorin. Thorin accepted it with great solemnity.

"Thank you," he said, for the second time that morning. "And again for the harp. I couldn't imagine a finer birthday present."

Frodo's heart lightened a little in his chest. If anyone was going to steal Bilbo away, he supposed, it might as well be someone like Thorin. And maybe—just maybe, if he was very good and promised not to complain—Bilbo would let him come along too. He had a rucksack and a walking stick and everything, after all. Surely it wasn't so very far to Erebor.

But there was no point in thinking such things, he reminded himself. It was like wandering elvish painters, or mama coming back to visit Bag End. Some dreams were just too good to come true.


End file.
